by Martin James Hunter

Every song on Confield is a different realm, every layer a geographical feature. Worlds painted to such an extent that it is easy to imagine the beings that inhabit them. Some organic, some not. Others in-between.

(1) Tiny metal balls chaotically ricochet against pots and pans. Later a flower gracefully unfurls amid pale blue light. (2) A man at the edge of his tether staggers through an industrial zone. As he progresses deeper the machines around him grow increasingly antagonistic. (3) Heroic automations hurriedly clear debris, growing ever more closer to trapped miners. When it is made apparent that no one has survived, the disappointed machines shut down one by one. (4) You are lost in a thick forest after taking more ketamine than you are used to. There is no moon nor stars tonight. (5) An underfunded waste processing plant where corrugated floors glisten with leaked fluid. An employee repeatedly pestered by the same fly watches without expression. (6) In a subterranean car park something dark and powerful is hurriedly put together and brought to life. Others are being synthesised in the distance. (7) A chain of lively spectres brush against instruments as they dance around an old house, conceiving music from their misery. (8) Interminable grids of clones submerged in maternal formula, cultivating under the watch of attentive submersibles. Eventually we are shown where the malfunctioning ones are left to die. (9) A central unit giving out erratic commands. Countless insect-like robots building over human infrastructure until all trace of the old world is gone. This new reign perpetuates for centuries. One day an important component blows and everything just stops.